


give me a chance (to prove it to you)

by fromprometheus



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Any way the wind blows, Basically Rambling, Basiton Grimm-Pitch, Baz Pitch - Freeform, Boys In Love, Healing, Sad Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Simon Snow - Freeform, baz pitch owns my heart, carry on, drunken vampires, only a lil bit though, rainbow rowell, simon snow uses his fkn words, wayward son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:33:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23879974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromprometheus/pseuds/fromprometheus
Summary: (In which Baz is a drunken mess, and Simon finally uses his words).“He-ey, Simon,” he drawls, tipping his head back against the cupboards. He reaches out, and then drops his arm like it’s made of lead. “Thought you’d be gone until, uh, tomorrow.”“Clearly,” Simon says, eyeing the haphazard pile of dishes in the sink, Baz’s jumper and shoes strewn across the floor. Baz looks gorgeous (he always does), in dark trousers and a threadbare white t-shirt. (Simon is pretty sure the t-shirt must be his; Baz barely owns any t-shirts, and usually wouldn’t be caught dead (ha) in something so inexpensive-looking). He looks gorgeous, and he also looks like he’s had far, far too much to drink. His face is flushed, eyes glassy and unfocused, and his long fingers are loose around the neck of a bottle resting in his lap.“Oh, Baz.” He murmurs, crouching down in front of him. “You’re a fucking mess, Basil.”
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 40
Kudos: 302





	1. Chapter 1

**SIMON**

He’s exhausted and angry when he gets home, and, okay, maybe ditching Penny and taking a two-hour long train back to London wasn’t his best idea. Whatever. He would’ve gone crazy if he’d stayed at the Wellbelove’s any longer; the entire family treat him like spun glass, these days, like he’ll break into pieces if they look at him wrong. Penny isn’t any better, either. It’s midnight by the time he makes it back to the flat, and he’s half-hoping that Baz is at the library – he stays out late, sometimes, to study, although Simon privately thinks that maybe he’s just avoiding him. (He doesn’t blame him. He’s suffocating. Even he wouldn’t want to hang out with him, these days). He isn’t sure he could handle the worried glances and too-gentle tones, the way that Baz acts like Simon might break if he says the wrong thing. He’s had enough of it from Penny and Agatha, tonight. But Baz’s laptop and textbooks are stacked neatly on the coffee table, so he’s definitely home.

Back when they first moved in, Baz would hear him before he’d even got his keys in the door, and would pounce on him before he even had a chance to close it behind him. But things are different, now. He follows the sound of the radio spilling out from the kitchen (an old rock station that Simon doesn’t see the appeal of, but Baz loves), and there’s Baz, sitting on the kitchen floor against the cabinets they keep the dishes in, long legs kicked out in front of him, arms loose at his side, head bent so that tangles of inky hair are falling across his face.

“Baz?” He calls, tentatively, dropping his bag on the kitchen floor.

For a long, terrible moment, he thinks that something must be wrong, that Baz must be hurt, and his heart turns over in his chest – but then he lifts his head up, and he’s grinning and flicking hair out of his eyes, and he looks fine. (Correction; he looks absolutely hammered – but otherwise fine). “He- _ey_ , Simon,” he drawls, tipping his head back against the cupboards. He reaches out, and then drops his arm like it’s made of lead. “Thought you’d be gone until, uh, tomorrow.”

“Clearly,” Simon says, eyeing the haphazard pile of dishes in the sink, Baz’s jumper and shoes strewn across the floor. Baz looks gorgeous (he always does), in dark trousers and a threadbare white t-shirt. (Simon is pretty sure the t-shirt must be his; Baz barely owns any t-shirts, and usually wouldn’t be caught dead (ha) in something so inexpensive-looking). He looks gorgeous, and he also looks like he’s had far, far too much to drink. His face is flushed, eyes glassy and unfocused, and his long fingers are loose around the neck of a bottle resting in his lap.

“Oh, Baz.” He murmurs, crouching down in front of him. “You’re a fucking mess, Basil.”

Baz tips his head to the side, blinking at him with big, sad eyes. “I know.” He says, mournfully, his voice a little slurred. Simon wonders how much he’s had to drink; Baz is hardly a lightweight. Not that he drinks, much, anyway – but the bottle in his lap looks suspiciously empty, and it smells like a fucking liquor store in here. “Hey, hey, Simon, c’mere,” he says, opening his arms and grinning up at him – properly grinning, all teeth. (It’s adorable). Simon does, because he doesn’t think he’d be able to say no to anything Baz asks, right now, not when he’s looking at him like that, with those sorrowful eyes. Baz could ask to drain him dry, right now, and Simon would let him. He’d open up a vein. He wouldn’t even hesitate. (God, he’s so far gone for this boy). He leans forward and props his chin up on the top of his head, and lets Baz wrap his arms around him, slumping against him.

He can’t remember the last time he hugged Baz. Baz barely touches him, recently – soft brushes of a hand across the top of his head, against his shoulder. That’s it. He thinks that Baz is maybe psyching himself up to break up with him. The thought makes it easier to lean away from him every time he gets too close. (Maybe it won’t hurt as bad, that way).

“I miss you,” Baz says, into his shoulder.

“I’m right here, Baz.” He says.

“Y’know what I mean,” Baz mutters, fingers tightening where he’s clutching Simon’s t-shirt. He does know what he means – this is the closest he’s been to Baz in weeks, fucking _months_ , probably. “You feel so far away, Si. ‘S like I’m losing you. Lost you.”

“Baz,” he says, softly, trying to ignore the tender ache in his chest. “Hey, look at me. Baz.” He tugs Baz back by his shoulders, gets a hand under his jaw so he can push his chin up. Baz’s eyes are glassy and so, so grey. “You won’t lose me, okay? Not ever. Over my fucking dead body. Alright?”

“ _My_ dead body,” Baz says, and then dissolves into giggles, pitching forwards to press his forehead against Simon’s shoulder. “Get it, Si? ‘Cause I’m a vampire.”

Simon swallows a laugh, pushing his nose into the top of Baz’s head, just because he can. Because he’s never seen Baz this out of his own head, before, this _uncensored_ , all soft edges and gentle eyes. Because it hasn’t felt this easy in a long, long time. He’ll allow himself this closeness, just for tonight. Hopefully, Baz is too far gone to remember it tomorrow. “Yeah, Baz. I get it. Hilarious.” Baz is still laughing, low and throaty, and he feels so, so fond. He manages to pull himself away, after a moment. “Okay, c’mon, let’s get you up.” Simon pulls himself up to his feet and holds his hands out to Baz.

“You takin’ me to bed, Snow?” Baz grins, blinking up at him with unfocused eyes. “How _decadent_.”

Getting Baz up off the floor is a bit of challenge, because he’s absolutely fucking _legless_ , all limbs and no grace – a stark contrast to his usual supernatural elegance. He’s got a good four inches on Simon, now, too, because apparently he’s a solid 6”2 and _still_ growing, that fucker. Simon manages to haul him up after several attempts, hooking his hands under his arms and pulling him off the floor. Baz pitches forwards almost straight away, but Simon manages to get an arm around his waist before he hits the ground. Baz is laughing, mumbling incoherently as he leans heavily against Simon, slinging an around his neck and clinging to his shoulders.

“Dance with me, Simon,” Baz grins, swaying on his feet.

“Baz, come on, you’re fucked, you need to get to bed.”

Baz’s face falls, then, which goes to show how out of it he is – usually Baz never shows his emotions on his face. Even Simon struggles to read him, these days. He thinks, briefly, about the last time Baz had tried to dance with him, months ago. His favourite song had come on the radio, and he’d caught Simon in his arms, and, for just a moment, everything had felt right, again, waltzing under the soft glow of the stove light. It hadn’t lasted long. Simon had given up and pulled away, after a minute, because he couldn’t get the steps right. He couldn’t get anything right. (Baz deserves better, he thinks). They’d slept on opposite ends of the bed, that night, and the foot of distance between them might as well have been a thousand miles. It felt like it, anyway.

“Yeah, fine, okay, let’s dance,” he finds himself saying, because he’d say just about anything to get that expression off of Baz’s face.

Baz slides his arms around his waist, pressing his palm into the small of his back, and Simon lets himself reach up to loop his arms around his neck, lets himself have this moment. (Because he’s worried there won’t be many of these moments left. Baz has always said this will end in flames; Simon is starting to think maybe he’s right). It’s less like dancing and more like stumbling around the kitchen, mostly because Baz seems to be having issues standing without support, and Simon is shit at dancing as it is, let alone when he’s trying to stop Baz from face-planting at the same time. But Baz is laughing into his neck, and for the first time in a while, it feels easier to breathe, again, like someone has loosened the knot that seems to be perpetually tightening in his throat. (His therapist says he’s traumatised. He isn’t sure what the point of his therapist is, really, because he could’ve figured that one out for himself. It’s not exactly rocket science).

“As romantic as this is, Baz, you’re a lot heavier than you look and I’m starting to lose all feeling in my arms. Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” He says, gently. It’s true, but he’s mostly just worried that Baz will throw up if he keeps swaying.

Trying to get Baz into the bedroom is like attempting a three-legged race with the world’s most pissed, uncoordinated vampire. He manages it, eventually, though, after several minutes of Baz getting distracted by everything and tripping over his feet. He drops him onto the bed, but Baz catches him by the front of his t-shirt and pulls him forwards, vampire-strong, slotting their lips together. Simon lets himself lean into it, just for a moment, closing his eyes and curling his palm around Baz’s jaw – and then pulls away. Baz, looking vaguely affronted, makes a soft, low whining sound at the back of his throat as he tries to tug Simon back into him.

“No, Baz, you’re drunk. And you taste you’ve been gargling nail polish remover. Come on, arms up.”

Baz pulls a face, but does as he’s told, anyway, and for a nineteen-year-old supernatural creature, he sure does look a lot like a petulant toddler. “All my fantasies of you taking m’shirt off involve me being a lot more sexy and a little less hammered.” He admits, after Simon’s pulled his t-shirt off, dropping back down against his pillows and closing his eyes. Simon tries not to think about how gorgeous he looks like that, his hair everywhere, all in his eyes and splayed out across the pillow, a stark contrast to the white sheets. Baz is all harsh angles, dark hair, high cheekbones, slightly crooked nose – even drunk out of his mind, he looks like some kind of Greek god. Like he’s been cut from marble. (It takes every single ounce of his willpower not to fit his hand into the planes of his chest, trace down the lines of the muscles in his torso, and, hell, he is _so far gone_ ).

“You’re always sexy, Baz.” Simon tells him, straightening up and rummaging through Baz’s drawers for clean pyjamas. “And I’m only saying that because there is zero chance of you remembering this tomorrow. Wouldn’t want you getting too big for your boots.”

“Well, y’know what they say about big boots,” Baz grins, raising an eyebrow. (Simon is potentially one more innuendo away from a heart attack. Drunk Baz is fucking incorrigible).

“I’m ignoring you, Baz.” He sighs, hiding a smile, and tugs at the ankle of Baz’s trousers (dark, expensive trousers – because of course Baz wears his fancy clothes even when he’s drinking at home on his own). “Come on. Trousers off. I’d like to sleep at some point today, Pitch.”

Baz stretches, languidly, folding an arm under his head. Simon pointedly ignores the way that the muscles in his shoulders shift. “In a minute,” he grunts, blinking up at the ceiling. “M waiting for everything to stop spinning, first.”

Simon rolls his eyes, moving to unbutton Baz’s trousers. Baz grins at him, wolfish, watching him through half-lidded eyes, and opens his mouth to say something. “One more innuendo,” Simon warns, before Baz gets the chance to speak, “and I will make you sleep on the floor. I’m serious.”

Baz holds his hands up in surrender, lifting his hips so Simon can pull his trousers off. It takes another solid five minutes to convince Baz to put the pyjama bottoms on (red and white tartan trousers – he’s pretty sure they’re his, actually, because even drunk Baz looks vaguely horrified by them).

-

When sits on the edge of the bed to untie his shoelaces, Baz moves behind him, slumping against his back and propping his chin up over his shoulder. His skin is cold. (Baz is always cold, but it’s the kind of cold Simon wants to live inside). Simon twists his head, pushing his nose against his mess of dark hair. “If you throw up on me,” he warns, “I will kill you.”

“M not g’na throw up,” Baz promises, ducking his head forward to kiss the mole against his Simon’s collarbone, sliding his arms around his middle. He kisses along the line of his throat, clumsy but so, so gentle, and Simon goes pliant, for a moment, tips his head to the side to give him access – because it’s all so easy and familiar, so achingly tender that it almost hurts. Baz hasn’t touched him like this in what feels like forever; why can’t it be this easy when they’re _both_ sober?

“C’mon, Baz,” he says, softly, but doesn’t make any move to pull away. Baz murmurs unintelligibly against his neck, and then mouths at the junction of his throat, teeth grazing the skin there. Simon realises that he’s probably a little bit crazy, because he’s letting a drunken vampire bite at his neck, but, whatever. He can’t bring himself to care. He trusts Baz more than he trusts anybody – more than he trusts himself. Even when they’re fighting. Even when they’re barely talking. Baz starts sucking a mark underneath his jaw, and he doesn’t manage to swallow down the choked-off sound he makes.

“Okay, Baz, enough, c’mon, bedtime,” he says, standing up and pushing Baz away so he can change out of the fancy formal wear Agatha had corralled him into for dinner with her parents. When he turns back around, Baz is watching him with possibly the fondest expression he’s ever seen, like he really does love him. But this is Baz after almost an entire bottle of vodka – what if this isn’t really what he wants? What if this is just fleeting? Simon isn’t sure he’d be able to handle it if Baz goes back to being distant and quiet again tomorrow morning.

He hesitates, for a moment, unsure of himself, but Baz catches him by the wrist and tugs him forward. “Come to bed, Si,” he mumbles, looking at him like he’s a complete idiot. (How does Baz manage to look so thoroughly unimpressed with Simon when he’s absolutely fucked? He’s starting to think that it might just be his resting expression). Simon goes easily when he pulls, because he really doesn’t have any willpower, and lets Baz curl around him, pushing his face into the crook of his neck.

-

“I’m worried you don’t want me, anymore.” Simon says, very, very quietly, after several minutes of laying in the dark, listening to Baz breathe. Baz is still, for a moment, and he’s starting to think that maybe he fell asleep or maybe he hadn’t heard, and that maybe it’s better that he hadn’t heard, anyway – but then Baz pushes himself up on his elbows, blinking at him, eyes wide and sad. (Baz’s eyes are so, so grey). Simon looks up at the ceiling, dragging his fingertips over Baz’s back so that he has something to do with his hands. “I used to be made of magic.” He whispers. “Now I’m nothing. A Normal. And I’m not even very good at being Normal.”

Baz scoffs, pushes himself up all the way. “You’re not nothing, Simon Snow.” He says, gripping his arm so hard that it’s starting to hurt. (He’s starting to realise that Baz is less aware of his super-strength when he’s drunk. It’s kind of adorable, somehow). “You’re everything. My everything. I don’t – I don’t care about magic, Si. I would give it all up. For you. In a fuckin’ heartbeat. All I want is you, s’all I’ve ever wanted. Magic or no magic. Normal or not. Don’t you get it?”

Simon closes his eyes, and wishes, not for the first time, that he still had magic and a wand so that he could cast one of Penny’s spells, make time stop, keep Baz here in his arms, in this moment. Everything is easier in the dark than it is in the harsh light of day, somehow. “I get it.” He says, and he does. He really does. But the doubt will always be there, the panic, the knowledge that Baz deserves better, and that he could realise that at any moment. That Simon is holding his entire world in his arms, right now, and he doesn’t have the first clue what he would do without him.

“Simon,” Baz murmurs, a slur still evident in his voice. He brushes his nose against the curve of his collarbone. “My Simon. Will you still be mine when I wake up?”

And that breaks his heart, just a little. “Always.” He promises, squeezing Baz’s hand. “I promise, Baz. Always.”

Baz sighs, contentedly, dropping his head down against Simon's chest, and, after a few minutes, his goes limp, his breathing evening out.

(It's the first good night of sleep Simon's had in months).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, vampire healing doesn’t cure hangovers. (You’d think that the vampire thing sucks enough that there would be at least this one benefit. No wonder nobody ever voluntarily choses to Turn).

**BAZ**

He wakes up feeling like he’s risen from the dead all over again. His entire body is aching, and even before he opens his eyes, everything feels entirely too bright and entirely too loud. Apparently, vampire healing doesn’t cure hangover. (You’d think that the vampire thing sucks enough that there would be at least this _one_ benefit. No wonder nobody ever voluntarily chooses to Turn). He blinks his eyes open, and then immediately regrets it. Has the sun always been this bright? He rolls over, smacks his forehead against Simon’s knee, and promptly rolls back again, groaning and clutching at his head.

He blinks up at Simon, who’s sat cross-legged on his bed, in joggers and a t-shirt, book open in his lap, smiling hesitantly. “Morning, sunshine. How’re you feeling?”

“ _Gah_ ,” he grunts, turning his face towards Simon and throwing an arm over his eyes. His limbs all feel like they’re made of lead. The light streaming in through the half-open blinds is definitely burning more than it usually does. “Why the fuck is it so bright in here?"

Simon laughs, reaching out to push Baz’s hair out of his face. He doesn’t move his hand away, instead curling his fingers around the curve of his jaw, the space behind his ear. Baz turns into his touch, automatically. (Simon’s hands are so warm). “Not good, then?”

“You’re so loud, Snow. Fucking _hell_. I feel like someone’s tap-dancing on my skull.”

Simon laughs, quieter, brushes a thumb across his cheek. “You want coffee?”

“I want _death_ ,” Baz growls, tugging one of the pillows down over his face. “I want you to stake me through the fucking heart, Simon, and put me out of my misery. Go on, Snow, light me on fire, see if I give a single fuck.” He hesitates for a moment, and lifts the pillow enough to glare at Simon, who’s looking at him like he hung the moon and all of the stars. He softens, a little, at that, because how could he not? “Coffee would be good, too, I guess.”

Simon looks at him like he wants to say something, and then shakes his head and bends over to drop a kiss against his forehead before he slides off the bed and disappears into the kitchen. Baz touches the space on his forehead, closing his eyes, and wonders if maybe he’s still dreaming. Simon hasn’t been this soft with him in weeks, last night notwithstanding. Last night, despite admittedly being drunk out of his mind, his singular coherent, persistent thought was that he hoped to all the gods he didn’t believe in that Simon wouldn’t disappear back into himself the next morning. And maybe – well, maybe he isn’t. Maybe this is the start of something. Maybe this is getting back on track.

Merlin, he fucking hopes so.

He’s starting to realise that moping and overthinking is actually just starting to make his headache worse, so he drags himself out of bed and finds a pair of Simon’s socks on his floor to pull on. (Snow’s shit is all over the floor, all the time, no matter how many times a day he goes around cleaning up after him. It’s astonishing, honestly, how one person can make this much mess). He feels queasy as all hell and thirsty enough that his gums are kind of aching, but he manages to make it to the kitchen, where Simon is spooning sugar into his coffee. (Simon has three sugars in his coffee. The diabetes is definitely going to catch up with him, one of these days). He watches Simon lean across the counter to put the sugar back, watches the muscles of his back shift under his thin t-shirt. He hasn’t had a hair cut in a while, so his curls are longer than ever and tumble in his eyes when he bends his head, and they look almost golden in the soft glow of the morning’s sunlight. Everything about Simon is golden; bronze curls, tawny skin. Baz doesn’t deserve something as good as him, but he doesn’t care – he’ll cling to him for as long as he can, for as long as Simon will let him. (He’s selfish. Ask anyone.)

He hesitates in the doorway for a moment, uncertain, and then decides that he feels shitty enough that he deserves this. (Maybe something has changed. Maybe Simon won’t pull away). He waits for him to set the kettle down before he slides his arms around Simon’s waist, propping his chin up on his shoulder, and, to his credit, Simon only jumps a little. (The vampire-stealth scare is clearly starting to wear off, recently, which is unfortunate, because he really did used to like seeing Snow jump out of his skin every time he appeared out of nowhere). He’s freezing cold (because he’s always freezing cold), and even without all that magic burning up inside of him like a nuclear reactor, Simon is still akin to a human radiator.

“Alright?” Simon asks, quietly, twisting his head to glance sideways at him, his mess of curls brushing against the side of Baz’s head. Baz doesn’t manage to meet his eyes, because he’s a little preoccupied watching his hands as he stirs the coffee. Simon has nice hands – long, nimble fingers, his knuckles splashed with freckles. (He’d sat and counted every freckle on his hand, once. He knows Simon’s body better than he knows his own, at this point).

“My head hurts,” he says, a little pathetically, because it really, really does. He pushes his nose into the crook of Simon’s neck. The room feels far too bright, and the sound of his own voice is giving him a fucking headache. “I regret so many things about last night,” he adds, and Simon tenses, at that, the muscles in his shoulders tightening. Baz pulls backwards, realising what he’s said, and considers just shutting the fuck up and going back to bed – but he can’t quite manage it, so instead he catches Simon by the waits and pulls him around to face him. Simon won’t meet his eyes, staring resolutely at the ground, so he tips his chin up with gentle fingers underneath his jaw. “I regret a lot of things about last night,” he repeats. (Simon’s eyes are so, so blue). “Drinking almost an entire bottle of vodka and making an absolute tosser of myself, for example. And allowing you to pick out my pyjamas. They’re hideous. I’m pretty sure these are yours.” He says, pointing down at the tartan pyjama bottoms. A smile tugs at the corners of Simon’s mouth, so he’s taking that as a win. “But what I said. I meant it, Simon. I still mean it. You’re my everything. And I want you, okay? I’ve only ever wanted you, you ridiculous, gorgeous, _idiotic_ fucker. So I’m yours. For as long as you’ll have me, Simon.”

Simon clears his throat, a pretty blush settling high on his cheekbones. Baz can practically see the cogs in his brain turning – Simon wears every emotion as clear as day across his face. He’s ridiculous. (But, fuck, he loves him). “I’m, uh,” he starts, waving his hand, “not good with the. You know. Feelings. Talking. Not like you are. But all I know is everything is pretty shit right now. Except you. And I, uh, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Baz stifles a laugh, and Simon glares at him, despite his smile. “Shut up, Baz. What I’m trying to say is that I love you, even though you’re a complete dick. And although everything might stay shit, for a while, because I’m like, _traumatised_ , or whatever, the only person I want by my side is you. So. Yeah.”

It’s ridiculous, how blasé Simon is about his trauma. Penny’s told him more than once that she thinks that he might be depressed. Baz has absolutely no idea how to deal with that, but, well, he’s willing to stick around and figure it out. (More than willing. Wild horses couldn’t drag him away). He wants to tell him that, but the words get stuck in his throat. It’s fine. They have time.

“Good,” he says, instead. “You can’t get rid of me, Snow, I thought you’d have got that by now.”

“As long as you’re sure,” Simon says, a little doubtful.

“Crowley, Snow. Of course I’m sure, you moron. Are you being obtuse on purpose?” He sets his hands on his shoulders, resists the urge to shake some goddamned sense into him. “I got an apartment with you, Simon. I let you leave your shit all over the floor. I let you steal my clothes. I let you starfish all over the bed and hog the blankets even though it’s _annoying as fuck_. I’m in this, Simon. No matter what. So you can stop waiting around for the other shoe to drop, because it isn’t going to.”

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Merlin, Baz, I forgot how dramatic you are.”

And just like that, the uncertainty disappears. It feels like there’s been this weight on his shoulders, like a tonne of bricks balanced between his shoulder blades, like he was fucking Atlas, the weight of the world on his shoulders. (Simon is his world. He’d carry that weight, for him. He wouldn’t hesitate. His father would say that he’s a fool, that he’s soft. He doesn’t care.) But the weight is gone, now, however momentarily. He can breathe properly again, for the first time in a while. He moves away from Simon, because if he’s kind of scared he’ll do something stupid if Simon keeps looking at him like that, like start crying, or something equally ridiculous. His shoes and jacket are still strewn over the floor, because apparently drunk Baz is just as bad as Simon, so he reaches down to pick them up, lining his shoes up next to the door and throwing the discarded bottle in the bin. The smell of vodka makes his stomach churn; he’s definitely not going to be touching another drink for a good while, now. When he turns back, Simon is still watching him, impossibly fond.

“Why were you drinking alone, anyway? You never drink.”

Baz is sure that if he wasn’t a vampire, he’d be flushed red right now. He rolls his eyes, leaning past Simon to take the mug of coffee, mostly just so that he has something to do with hands. “I was. You know. I-” he starts, and then stops, frowning into his coffee, because he can’t seem to find the words to string together. (Is this how Simon feels all the time?) He glances up, and Simon’s looking at him expectantly. His t-shirt is slipping down on one shoulder, and Baz can see the trail of faint red marks against the curve of his clavicle. It’s hugely distracting. (It’s taking every ounce of his self-restraint not to pounce on him). “Merlin, Snow, don’t make me say it, it’ll only embarrass us both.”

Simon snorts, cradling his own mug against his chest. “Ha. I think we’re well past that point, Baz. You embarrassed yourself plenty last night.”

Baz smiles, despite himself. (Simon is a complete moron, and, fuck, he loves him so much). “Okay. Fine. I missed you, alright? I missed us. Crowley knows why, though, you’re annoying as all fuck.”

Simon tips his head back and laughs, and there’s this tender ache somewhere behind Baz’s ribs, because he looks so, so beautiful. (His eyes are just so blue). So Baz leans down and kisses him, because for the first time in a long time, he isn’t worried that Simon will pull away – and he doesn’t. Instead he sets his mug down and reaches up to loop his arms around his neck and pulls him closer, fingers threading through Baz’s hair. Simon kisses him tenderly, all gentle pressure and careful movements, like he’s something fragile, something important. (He feels a little bit more human, then, just for a minute).

“Still annoying as all fuck?” Simon grins, as he pulls back. He’s dragging his thumb over the space just behind his ear, and it’s making it hugely difficult to focus.

“Always, Snow,” he murmurs, dropping his forehead against Simon’s.

“Go take a shower, Basil, you’re disgusting.” Simon laughs, shoving at his shoulder.

Baz raises an eyebrow, pressing his fingertips into Simon’s hips. “Is that so? Because I seem to remember something about me being sexy _all the time_.”

Simon groans, ducking his head. “Crowley, I regret telling you that, you dick.”

“Yep. You think I’m _sexy_.” He can’t seem to stop smiling. (Merlin, he’s so weak.) “And it’s too late, Snow, I’m already far too big for my boots. My cockiness peaked when I was, like, fourteen. I’m a lost cause. Ask anyone.”

Simon lifts his head, and then moves his hands to cup Baz’s face, thumbs framing his cheekbones, and his grip is so, so gentle. There are faint dark shadows underneath his eyes – there has been for weeks, now, because Simon doesn’t sleep much these days. He’s seems to be tired more often than he isn’t, these days, always dragging his limbs, shoulders hunched like a puppet with its strings cut. He’s a bit of a mess, honestly, but in a beautiful, tragic kind of way. (Trauma isn’t beautiful, but Simon Snow definitely is.) “You are a lost cause, Baz.” He tells him, just barely above a whisper. “Completely. So am I. We’re matching, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Baz agrees, softly. “Yeah, we are.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was I planning on making this longer than one chapter? No. Am I mostly procastinating college work? Yep. I just had a spiral about the aftermath of everything and Simon healing emotionally and couldn't stop. At this point this isn't even a structured fic, just, like, drabbles. I'm not even sorry.

**BAZ**

He wakes up to screaming.

This isn’t unusual; he wakes up to Simon screaming more nights than he doesn’t, these days. He jerks upright, reaching out on autopilot to flick the lamp switch on, as Simon’s screams die in his throat, turning into these awful, heart-wrenching choked-off sobs. (It isn’t unusual, but it never stops breaking his heart.)

He sits up properly and pulls Simon towards him, takes his face in his hands and curls his thumbs into the space behind his ears. He’s done this enough to know what to do, now, and he hates that it’s become a routine, almost. Simon’s eyes are panicked and unfocused, like he’s still trapped in his nightmare, and he’s sucking in these shallow, ragged breaths. “Shh, hey, Simon, hey.” He murmurs, pushing down his own panic. “Everything’s alright. It was just a nightmare, okay? It’s okay. We’re in the apartment, just you and me. I’ve got you.” Simon looks at him properly, now, reaches a hand out to cling onto his wrist. “That’s it. Breathe with me, Simon.” He murmurs like this until Simon’s breathing evens out again, and then lets out a breath of relief, pushing his hand up into Simon’s hair. “Good, Si. There we go. That’s it, love. Alright?”

Simon squeezes his eyes shut and nods, even though there are still tears spilling down his cheeks, and then he lurches forwards to press his face into the crook of Baz’s neck, still trembling. Baz threads his fingers through his curls and tugs him closer with an arm around his waist. He wants to keep him here forever, safe and in his arms and staying the fuck out of trouble. He hates seeing him like this; he hates that Simon is just nineteen years old and has already known grief, suffering, enough pain to last him more than a lifetime. (He wishes there was a way that he could bear this burden, for him. He’d take it, if he could, in a heartbeat.) Some days are better for Simon, now, but some days aren’t – it’s hit and miss, mostly, and he doesn’t mind. Some good days are better than none at all, and he figures that at least slow progress is still progress. (“Recovery is a marathon, not a sprint,” Penny had told Simon last week, after a particularly shit day, and both Simon and Baz had rolled their eyes at her, but – well, it’s true, actually. He’s started quoting Penny almost as much as Simon does, and it’s really becoming an issue.)

“I’m going for a shower,” Simon says, suddenly, pulling himself away. His hair is sticking up at all angles, and his eyes are blood-shot and red-rimmed, cheeks flushed like he’s embarrassed. He always gets like this after Baz has seen him crying, like he’s worried that he might scare him off. Like anything could scare him off, at this point. But, well, Simon’s ridiculous. So.

“Okay,” he says, gently, brushing his fingertips over Simon’s arm.

“You. Uh. You could – come with me.” Simon stammers, and then flushes when Baz raises his eyebrows at him. “Not like that, you dick. I just – I just. You know.”

“Yeah, okay.” He agrees, easily, because he can get the message, and doesn’t want to let go, either. (Because he’d agree to anything Simon asked him to do.)

-

Simon’s always quietly pensive, after he’s had a nightmare, and Baz can almost see him reliving it in his head. He never asks what it was about, because he figures Simon will tell him if he wants to. He usually doesn’t. (Baz sometimes thinks that the not knowing is better. That it’s easier not to think about the shit Simon’s been through, because it hurts too much. He’s selfish. Ask anyone).

Simon leans into Baz, clings to his arm and Baz tug his clothes off and steer him into the shower, shivering when the water runs cold at first. It isn’t often that Simon lets him in, like this, so he’s going to savour every moment he can. He slides his hands across his shoulders, over the knot of muscles there, down the front of his chest, traces his fingertips along the freckles beneath his collarbones. Simon smiles tiredly at him, tips his head back against the wall. He lets himself be uncharacteristically soft with Simon, in moments like these, when he’s still clouded with sleep.

(He’s spent the last several years of his life wishing for it, so he’s pretty sure he deserves it). It feels too… raw, maybe, to be like this in the light of day, in front of anyone that isn’t Simon.

“I was dreaming about Ebb,” he says, softly, when Baz starts threading his fingers through his hair. His eyes are closed, shoulders slumped like all the nervous energy has just flooded right out of him. “About that night. The blood was- was everywhere, you know, all on the concrete and in her hair. I can’t get it out of my head, sometimes.” He sets his jaw the way he does when he’s trying not to cry, ducks his head like he doesn’t want Baz to look at him. “I don’t want to remember her like that.”

“I know, love. I know.” He sighs, drags his fingers through the short part of Simon’s hair. “You just have to remember all the good parts, too. The time you spent together. Like, I don’t know, herding goats or whatever.” He adds, thinking about all the time he spent watching Simon roaming around the lawns with Ebb back at Watford. How he’d come back to their room red-nosed and rosy-cheeks, smiling to himself beneath layers of scarfs. (And, Crowley, he has it bad. Always did, even back then. Love is foul.)

Simon snorts, jabbing him in the side. “I resent that. We did not _herd goats or whatever_.” He protests, and then lifts his head, and he’s smiling. (Simon has the most beautiful, blinding smile. It’s a whole scene. He turns everything into a scene). “But you’re right, I guess.”

“I always am.”

“Baz.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

Baz smiles at him, because he can’t not smile at Simon, and tugs at a stray curl. “You know what you signed up for when you asked me to be your terrible boyfriend, Snow.” He doesn’t say it with the same hint of insecurity that he would have a month ago, before Simon found him drinking on the kitchen floor that night. He knows, now, that Simon wants him just as much as he wants Simon, even if sometimes he struggles to show it.

“I know. You really are terrible.” He says, but he’s still smiling at him, his eyes fond. (Baz can kind of see where Penny is coming from when she says that Simon has heart eyes. He’s pretty sure that he’s wearing the exact same expression. It’s sickening, honestly.)

He presses a kiss to the side of his cheekbone, ignores the tender, fond ache behind his ribs. “Okay, okay. I’m tired, and I need my beauty sleep. Let’s go.” (He mostly just wants Simon to get as much sleep as possible, if he can.) Come on, Snow.”

Simon shoves at his shoulder. “Simon.” He insists.

“You’re ridiculous. I’m not calling you that.”

“ _Simon_.” He repeats, folding his arms over his chest.

Baz looks heavenward. “Fine. Simon, darling, the light of my life, the apple of my eye, etcetera, etcetera. Come to bed, you fucking moron.”

“Coming, _darling_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not going to lie, I'm kind of terrified to post this. I write literally constantly, but haven't published anything online since a very cursed Wattpad TMR fanfic in, like, 2013, because nothing I write feels finished/good enough. But quarantine is giving me far too much time, and I'm so obsessed with CO/WS, so I thought I'd go ahead and actually publish some of my rambles. Thanks for reading! (:


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